Unveiling the First Secret of Brackenreid's Boudoir
by Romantic Nerd
Summary: Ever wonder how Thomas Brackenreid started painting in the first place? This short one-shot gives a possible answer. There are some minor give-aways from the relevant Season 11 episode, but mostly safe of spoiler details.


Unveiling the First Secret in Brackenreid's Boudoir

Thomas Brackenreid remembered it was there that very moment – the moment it was too late. He had not intended to include it in his portfolio of artworks, it being the first drawing he had ever been so inspired to make, with such power that the urge to draw it had haunted his dreams, forcing him to yield to it, to finally draw the image in the hope of getting it out of his mind.

At first, he had been grateful for his mistake of accidentally not removing it from his works, for he was certain that _**it**_ was the piece that convinced them of his worthiness of inclusion, that and his $3 a month for an art studio, swaying them to take him in, to get him undercover as an artist on Murdoch's case. Especially once he truly grasped what was going on with this particular group of artists, he was wholly certain that it was that one, this particular simple, pencil drawing, that had gotten him over the edge.

But now, now that Murdoch held it in his hands, and the look on his face… now he deeply regretted the oversight. A part of him hoped that Murdoch did not recognize it for what it was, that his dumbfounded expression was one of general shock at the fact that he had drawn such an irresistibly alluring image in the first place. But his logical mind told him that that was impossible, for by now, by the time this case had been solved and they were merely finishing up the details, one of which was collecting up his art supplies and his portfolio, by now Murdoch had seen multiple examples of his artistic renditions of women in the nude. Thomas' heart pounded in his chest, the lead-weight of dread seeping down into each and every muscle, for now, now, Murdoch knew.

William wanted to look up at the Inspector, felt the heaviness of the man's eyes on him, but he was stuck, firmly and completely held hostage by the image clasped in his fingers and its interplay and dance with the image he had held in his head for years. Back then, for that one moment in time that he had glanced down… it couldn't have been for more than a minuscule of a fraction of a second that he had looked down at her, but he had… And what he had seen when he looked down at her in that one moment had rocked him to his core.

The Inspector had captured it so perfectly with his gray hues of light and shade, wrapping and hugging her luscious curves. The way her long, dangling curls parted around the plump roundness of her breasts, and the way the ends of those wavy strands of her hair floated in the air above the dip away of her tiny waist, and his eyes rode outward again over the broadness of her hips. Even the shovel in her hands, so perfect, its stark steely hardness contrasting against her natural softness, the mere fact of it in the picture testifying to the magic of this woman. There was a strength in her that floored him, and yet… Her face, stunned, open, so very, very open, and exposed. Her eyes, only one person in all the world with those eyes, and they pleaded for whatever was before her to not to be happening, and at the same time, they begged to see in his eyes that what was happening was glorious. Never, ever had he known such beauty, felt such a pull at his manhood… at his soul.

Such a rumble, as the earth moved, the sound of the Inspector's voice piercing through the fog of the outer world.

"Murdoch… I can explain," he scraped out the effort to stop the potential for betrayal.

Unsure whether or not his voice would work, for he did not swallow first, or lift his eyes from the drawing, William uttered, "It's Julia," all he said.

Thomas stepped closer, careful not to even suggest that he would take the picture from Murdoch's hands. A hum played in his ears as he replied, "Yes. Yes, it is." Thomas swallowed, stepped in closer, "From when she saved Crabtree's life."

Unsure if the impact of meeting Murdoch's eyes was a shove or a pull, Thomas felt weak-kneed with the wham of it. There was such of rush of need to make it right. "I uh, I couldn't get it out of my mind, Murdoch. I'm sorry. I… I just…" Thomas opened his arms wide, his head shook side to side, slowly, wishing it weren't so. "I just couldn't," he said.

"Neither could I," _thank God_ , Murdoch gave, wrinkling up a corner of his mouth to admit it.

And then there was a shift, a profound change. Their feet were on the ground, and there was a solidness with the familiarity of being the two of them together, and the world seemed to have stopped spinning, and Murdoch pinched his lips together and gave the Inspector a quick nod, as he placed the drawing of his naked and gorgeous wife back down into the pile of Brackenreid masterpieces.

Thomas couldn't help it, releasing a sigh of relief.

Suddenly an undeniable tickle seized him, and he could not help himself. "You know, Murdoch. I could draw one of you… if you'd like, just as Lady Carlye had suggested, with the touch of my brush."

The returned look mingled his scolding glare with his blush, and the Inspector found he could nothing but laugh. All was well, despite the unveiling of the first secret in Brackenreid's boudoir.


End file.
